


KBPS

by bananaquit



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-20 09:35:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16134554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananaquit/pseuds/bananaquit
Summary: “You ain’t a psychologist, Stanford,” Fiddleford said.“I never claimed to be. Are you going to answer the question?”





	KBPS

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Inkblot9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkblot9/gifts).



The muffled thudding started slowly. It picked up its pace until it reached a dizzying vivacissimo, a frantic heartbeat of fevered, rhythmic tapping behind him. Ford turned in his chair at the familiar sound. He let out a sigh, knowing what the source of the noise was before it even came into view. His roommate was seated at the desk on the opposite side of the room, bouncing his knee like there was no tomorrow. He focused on Fiddleford’s movements, counting and doing quick calculations in his head. 2.7 knee bounces per second.

“On a scale from 1 to 10, how would you rate your current stress level?” Ford asked, punctuating the silence. Fiddleford jumped a bit at the sound of his voice before turning to face him with a frown. He wondered how many times Ford was going to ask him this question. It was always the same thing. First, he would rate his stress, then Ford would nod thoughtfully and ask if there was anything he could do to help. Sometimes Fiddleford would give him a hug in reply. Sometimes he would just say “no” and Ford would nod again and give a sad little hum and go back to his work. Ford’s method of comfort was like his mindset: detached, analytical, scientific.

“You ain’t a psychologist, Stanford,” Fiddleford said.

“I never claimed to be. Are you going to answer the question?”

“Alright, fine. 6. Does that ma-” Fiddleford stopped as he noticed Ford scribbling something discreetly in his notebook. “Are you writing this down?” he asked indignantly.

Ford reached down to open one the desk drawers. He reached inside and produced a rolled-up piece of paper, the crouched down on the ground and rolled it out. As he ran his hands over it, flattening it out, Fiddleford realized it was a large array of graphs and tables so big that Ford could splay himself out on it and only barely reach the edges. It was organized chaos, colorful and messy yet precise. It was clear Ford had spent a lot of time cataloging all this data. Notes were scribbled in the margins, leaving little white space.

“Something is significantly altering your emotional state,” Ford said matter-of-factly. He grabbed a marker from atop his desk and positioned himself on his hands and knees over the spread of paper. Fiddleford followed his gaze to a graph titled “Stress Level in Relation to KBPS”. The x-axis was labeled “KBPS” and the y-axis was labeled “Stress Level”. Ford pointed to the bottom left corner of the graph, pressing his fingertip to the point (0, 2). “Your baseline stress level is 2. Your current KBPS is-”  
  
“My _what_ now?” Fiddleford

“Knee bounces per second,” Ford said. He plotted the point (2.7, 6) on the graph, then used a ruler to draw in the line of best fit, which demonstrated a steady positive trend. “There’s a direct correlation between your knee bounces per second and your stress level,” he explained, gesturing to the graph. “The higher your KBPS, the higher your stress level.” He moved to a tall table with two columns, one for the date and time and one for KBPS. He quickly added the most recent data before running a finger down the part of the table representing the last week and then looked back up at his friend. “Your KBPS has been abnormally high the entire week, which leads me to believe your stress levels have been high as well. The data doesn’t lie, Fiddleford. I’m worried about you. Is there something you’d like to talk about?”

Fiddleford’s knee stopped bouncing. “You’re incredible,” he said, gently shaking his head but smiling slightly. Ford couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic or not. “Well, ya got me."

“Really?” Ford said, looking way too proud of himself. Fiddleford snickered softly and playfully nudged Ford with his foot.

“Yeah. Are you sure you wanna listen to me talk about my feelings?” Fiddleford raised an eyebrow, eyeing the graphs and tables on the floor.

Ford’s reply was firm and certain. “Absolutely.”


End file.
